


Second Opinion

by DameRuth



Series: Flowers [26]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More fallout from the Year That Never Was, Sometimes you just have to team up to take care of someone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:41:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24810244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameRuth/pseuds/DameRuth
Summary: Jack is showing signs of stress, and won't take any help from his team; Ianto decides it's time to enlist the help of a certain Doctor.[Continuing the Teaspoon imports, originally posted 2008.12.14 - 2009.01.04.]
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, Tenth Doctor/Jack Harkness
Series: Flowers [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/14017
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Flowers!verse, and a fairly direct sequel to ["Glass Houses,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24719560) ["Ten Minutes"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24737041) and ["Equinox."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24756553) Written for taffimai, winner of my "Torchwood" story in the [Support Stacie fic auction](http://www.majiksfanfic.com/phpbb/viewforum.php?f=99&sid=af6b73e153fdead12ca8d67386c5eda2); she wanted Jack risking himself physically to save others, and Ianto looking after Jack. Somehow, the idea of adding Ten to the mix and setting the whole shebang in the Flowers!verse popped into my head, and lo a bunny was born. Takes place sometime after "Sleeper" but before "Reset" in Torchwood's S2.

“Jack,” Ianto began.  
  
The glare he received in return snapped his mouth shut before he could continue.  
  
“Yes?” Jack responded in the light, catty, menacing tone of voice he used when he really wanted the other person to shut up for oh, say the next fifty years.  
  
Ianto studied his Director and lover, picking out the dark blots under Jack's eyes and the way the bones showed under his skin. For once, Jack genuinely looked like one of the living dead. A faint circular scar, purplish-blue, left over from Jack’s last death-by-gunshot still stood out sharply on the pale flesh of his forehead.  
  
With grim recklessness, Ianto responded, “You're dying nearly every day, now. This _can’t_ be good for you.”  
  
Instead of the feared explosion, the reaction was the even more feared dismissive grin. “Been taking correspondence courses in the health issues of immortals?” Jack asked. “Yes? No? Then trust that I know what I’m doing.”  
  
Once the deadly word “trust” came up in that sort of context, it was the end of the conversation, Ianto knew. If there was one thing Jack was touchy as hell about, it was trust.  
  
Ianto looked down, tacitly letting the matter drop. When he looked up again, Jack was gone.  
  
\--  
  
“Jack,” Owen said briskly. “I’ll try to be diplomatic here: you look like shit.”  
  
“I thought you liked the forties-retro look, even if it isn’t very heterosexual of me.” Jack didn’t even look up from the piece of paper he was studying.  
  
Owen _had_ said as much often enough, but never when Jack had been within earshot — at least by normal standards. Owen, being Owen, refused to be embarrassed by this evidence of Jack’s preternaturally good hearing. The medic merely shot Ianto an irritated eyeroll.  
  
“I’m serious, Jack. You might be unkillable, but that doesn't mean you can run yourself into the ground like this without consequences."  
  
"Consequences?" Jack responded, half-laughing. "Never thought I'd hear that word out of _your_ mouth, Owen. Sure you aren't the one with something wrong?"  
  
While Owen didn't seem inclined to shoot Jack a second time, by the end of the conversation Ianto judged that the medic was beginning to weigh the merits of strangulation, and not in a sexual context.  
  
\--  
  
"Jack," Gwen said, settling on the edge of his desk. "This has got to stop. You're just . . . walking into situations, anymore. That's making things harder for the rest of us; it's _dangerous_ , when we're right behind you. You need to start thinking about the rest of the team."  
  
Jack cocked an eyebrow at her. "You know, Gwen, you're absolutely right," he said in the utterly reasonable tone that was yet another warning sign when speaking with Jack.  
  
After that, Jack simply stopped telling the others where he was going or what he was doing, for the most part.  
  
At that point Gwen was about ready to start throwing things out of sheer frustration. Ianto, though far less likely to turn that impulse into physical reality than Gwen, had to admit her feelings were understandable.  
  
\--  
  
"Jack?" Toshiko hesitated at the entrance of the firing range. Jack had an array of guns out, cleaning and reloading them.  
  
He looked up with raised eyebrows. Tosh kept herself from flinching at the paleness of his skin and general impression of ill-health he radiated. He seemed to be fevered, burning up from the inside, though his hands were sure and steady with the weapons he held.  
  
She smiled and clasped her hands nervously. "I guess it's my turn," she began, stepping closer to the table where he was working. "All the others have had a go at talking with you."  
  
"All right then, shoot. Not literally of course," he said, nodding in illustration at his current project. He sounded mild enough, but Tosh knew that didn't necessarily mean anything. He began working again, but was clearly listening.  
  
"We're all really worried," she said. "You just don't stop anymore."  
  
That earned her a sidelong glance. "There's too much to do. I _can't_ stop."  
  
"I didn't mean _entirely_ , but you're always trying to get the rest of us to take breaks between things, to remember there's more than this." She waved a hand around the firing range.  
  
Jack stopped, and set down his pistol and cleaning rag, giving her his full attention for the first time. "Thing is, I'm not like the rest of you. This is what I do." His tone was gentle, reasonable -- and as unyielding as the concrete walls around them.  
  
Tosh knew she'd lost already, but she couldn't stand to see him looking so worn. "Jack, please, at least let us help!"  
  
He stood up and hugged her one-armed, using his forearm rather than his hand, so he wouldn't get grease all over her. "You _do_ help. You're running the analysis on that metal sample for me, aren't you?"  
  
"Yes," she said in a small, unhappy voice. "It's almost done."  
  
"Why don't you go check on that, then?" Jack asked. He dropped an affectionate kiss on her forehead, but when he released her, he sat immediately back at the table and began working again, shutting her out as completely as if she weren't there.  
  
Tosh bit her lip and left.  
  
\---  
  
Searching the Hub's backlog of electronic records would have been a daunting task, except that Ianto knew the exact date he needed. It was the day Jack had casually told everyone he was stepping out for about ten minutes or so; he hadn't been far off on that estimate, but when he re-entered the Hub he'd stopped and, just for a second or two, looked completely at a loss, as if everything (and everyone) he saw was unfamiliar. He covered it well, but Ianto suspected the interval had been far, far longer than ten minutes on Jack's end.  
  
That night, when they were "working late," Jack acted like they hadn't seen each other for months, and while that wasn't exactly a _bad_ thing (it had been quite memorable, in fact), it was the final confirmation Ianto needed to be sure Jack had been . . . traveling. With the Doctor.  
  
And just before Jack had "stepped out," he'd received a phone call.  
  
It took Ianto all of forty-five seconds to find the number at the other end of that communication, thanks to the Hub’s inbuilt caller ID and logging system.  
  
It took him another fifteen minutes to work up to actually dialing it.  
  
Finally he took a deep breath and punched it in, hoping he wasn't going to get a pay phone somewhere, or a pub or shop or some other place from which anyone might ring. If nothing else, the number didn't look local. International, at least.  
  
There was a long pause before the ringing began on the other end, long enough for Ianto to wonder if the number was good after all. He got his answer before the second ring finished. A click and a scuffle, then a completely unmistakable voice.  
  
"Hello?" The Doctor sounded anxious, cautious and a little out of breath. In the background was a faint, rhythmic noise, like some sort of running engine or machinery. "Who is this?"  
  
"Ianto Jones. I'm with Torchwood, in Cardiff . . ." Ianto trailed off, not sure if he should include a year, too. In a career full of bizarre situations, this had to be in the top ten. Top five, more like.  
  
"Ianto. Yes. I remember you." The Doctor's tone was calmer now, but his caution was nearly palpable. "To what do I owe the honor of this call?" Ianto didn't miss the unspoken, _And how the hell did you get this number?_ in the alien's tone.  
  
Ianto made a spur-of the moment decision to go with complete honesty as the most effective tactic. "I got this number from the Hub's call log. I need to talk to you about Jack. I think . . . He's not doing well, psychologically. I was hoping you might be able to help. I think it has something to do with that time he was gone, starting back when the American President was assassinated." He was gambling somewhat with that last guess, but after the digging he'd done in UNIT's records, he was willing to bet both Jack and the Doctor had been part of whatever had really happened on the _Valiant_ that fateful morning.  
  
There was a long silence from the Doctor, during which Ianto could clearly hear the engine noises in the background. Whatever it was seemed to be running a little rough.  
  
"That night, when you followed us," the Doctor said abruptly. "Do you remember the pub we stopped at?"  
  
 _Yes, of course I remember that pub. I only grew up in this city,_ was the first, snappish answer that sprang to mind, but Ianto controlled the impulse, replying only, "Yes, I remember it."  
  
"Then meet me there in half an hour. You won't need a gun this time," the Doctor said, and hung up.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boy, keeping Ten and Ianto on-topic is tough, even when they're just the versions that live in my head! Apologies for the delay, and thanks to aibhinn for some particularly detailed beta-work this time out!
> 
> * * *

Ianto was early, having dropped the phone and bolted for the pub after a brief pause to secure the after-hours Hub. As a result he had a long time to sit at his chosen table, toying with a cup of dreadful coffee. He checked his watch about every two minutes. It felt absurdly like being on a date, waiting for the other person to arrive and half expecting to be stood up.  
  
Exactly on time, he caught sight of a tall, slim figure in a long, tan coat. The Doctor wove between tables and through the crowd of evening patrons with careless ease, balancing a coffee cup that was twin to Ianto's own. He didn't move invisibly — in fact, he collected several appreciative and/or curious looks as he went — but it still seemed strange to Ianto that Cardiff's citizens could be so oblivious to an alien in their midst.  
  
The Doctor smiled when he saw Ianto, as if spotting a friendly acquaintance, and made his way across the room. As he set his cup down on the table and prepared to take a seat opposite Ianto, Ianto blurted out, "The coffee here is rubbish." He had no idea where that came from, or why it was the first thing out of his mouth.  
  
The Doctor was unfazed by the odd opening. "Yes, it is," he responded conversationally. "It's also very cheap, which is, I suspect, why we've both ended up with it anyway." He settled his long coattails with a graceful flick as he sat, and began to rummage in one suit pocket with an abstracted air.  
  
Ianto tensed reflexively but kept still, remembering that every single report on record indicated the Doctor never went armed.  
  
The Doctor's hand re-emerged, holding a motley collection of single-serving paper sugar packets in random colors, along with a perfectly ordinary teaspoon. The Doctor dropped the packets in a pile in the center of the table, gesturing invitingly to Ianto, who shook his head, bemused. The Doctor selected several packets and ripped them open one by one with great concentration, dumping sugar into the appalling coffee and stirring after each addition.  
  
It was the first time Ianto had seen the Doctor up close, in person, with good lighting and without the distracting chance of someone dying. Trying not to be obvious, he bent his head to take a sip of nasty black brew and studied the Doctor over the rim of the cup.  
  
From long reflex, he automatically noticed the cut of the Doctor's suit and coat — not contemporary, exactly, but not noticeably anachronistic and impeccably tailored to the alien's long, slender build, if a bit rumpled with wear. The other times Ianto had seen him, the Doctor had worn brown, but this suit was blue, in an unusual red pinstripe. A dark purple shirt and a maroon tie patterned with abstract swirls of lighter blue spoke of careful, if eccentric, coordination. All the fabrics appeared natural and of high quality: wool, cotton and silk. The Doctor's hair was so artfully mussed the careless air it gave him was doubtless a calculated effect. Physically, he appeared to be a pleasantly well-worn thirty-five or so; the fine lines at the corners of eyes and mouth combined with a dusting of freckles to imply a great deal of time spent outdoors in the sun and wind, belying his initially bookish, academic appearance. As always, he radiated a steady sense of belonging, as if he owned whatever particular room or situation he happened to be in.  
  
In an interesting contrast, Ianto's Torchwood-developed instincts also told him that the Doctor was tense and nervous, ready to jump two feet sideways at the slightest provocation. _Well,_ Ianto thought wryly, _that makes two of us._ "Thanks again, for saving me from the Weevil,” he said aloud. “On the equinox." Again, it wasn't quite what he had intended or expected to say; he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so awkward.  
  
"More like saving the two of you from each other," the Doctor replied with a faint, amused smile, looking up from his coffee and raising his eyebrows. "But you're welcome." He braced the teaspoon in place against the rim of his cup and took an experimental sip. His almost comical grimace of distaste left no doubt that sugar alone wasn't enough to save a bad situation. "Well, worth a try," he commented, shoving the cup aside with finality and rescuing his spoon. He flicked a few drops from it and then drew it across his tongue to clean it, his dark eyes focusing on Ianto with disconcerting clarity.  
  
"So, Ianto Jones," he began, in an almost formal cadence. "Decided I'm not a threat to the Earth after all?" He spun the spoon end for end between his fingers with careless dexterity before slipping it back into his pocket, followed by the remaining sugar packets.  
  
The intensity with which he continued to study Ianto sparked a realization. _Was he testing me just now, checking how I'd react to him reaching for something I couldn't see?_ "I've learned a lot since then," Ianto responded, wishing he didn't sound so defensive. "All I had to go on was what Torchwood London had in their records, and they thought you were an enemy. After we . . . met, I went looking. I've read your UNIT files."  
  
The Doctor's eyebrows shot up and he leaned back in his chair, feigning relaxation. "Oh, the unexpurgated ones, I hope," he said, back to being conversational. "The official versions are dull as ditchwater; they also tend to be fairly nonsensical, given how much has been hacked out of them." He didn't seem surprised or upset that Ianto had accessed another organization's highly-classified records.  
  
"Yes, they were the complete versions. I read all the way up through the American President's assassination on the _Valiant_ , and after," Ianto said, keeping his tone equally conversational, focusing his attention on the Doctor's face, watching for a reaction. Two could play at that game.  
  
He almost wished he hadn't been watching so carefully, because the Doctor's face went disconcertingly blank. "Ah, yes. That."  
  
"I'm fairly sure even the classified versions of those reports weren't complete." Ianto continued. The Doctor remained still, waiting, not correcting or elaborating. "You know, you get to recognize different styles, even in officialese. There was a certain way of leaving things out that reminded me of Jack's writing, UNIT files or not."  
  
Jack going missing and the Doctor reappearing at the same time the bizarre farce with Harold Saxon and a supposed alien First Contact played out was a pretty damning set of coincidences, but running across a batch of anonymous files written by someone who had a light touch with weasel-words (and a uniquely familiar way of abusing commas) cinched the connection in Ianto's mind.  
  
"Well, in some situations, it pays to bring in an outside expert," the Doctor responded after Ianto paused, which wasn't a direct confirmation, but near enough.  
  
"Case in point," Ianto said, nodding cordially.  
  
"How is he?" The words came out a little quickly, as if they’d been waiting on the tip of the Doctor’s tongue, and his perfectly cool, still mask slipped, revealing the worry underneath. In that moment, the Doctor no longer looked alien at all; his concern was as raw and real as any human's.  
  
Ianto realized the Doctor _cared_ about Jack, as one person cares about another. It wasn't a possibility he'd considered; the Doctor had always seemed so terrifically alien to him. He'd hoped the Doctor might agree to help from some sort of loyalty to the people who traveled with him (and in Jack's case, shared a bed with him on occasion), but genuine, comprehensible emotion was unexpected.  
  
Feeling slightly ashamed at having spent time playing verbal games, Ianto looked down at his coffee. "Not good," he said, answering the Doctor's tense emotion with simple truth. "He's . . ." Ianto stopped and laughed, bitterly. "I was about to say 'working himself to death,'" he clarified, "but that doesn't quite apply with Jack. Or maybe it does — he's been dying a lot lately. He goes charging in to situations, head-on, no planning. He can’t die permanently, but I know he feels pain. He just doesn’t seem to care anymore."  
  
He risked looking up, and the Doctor was watching with no less worry, but a hint of sympathy. "Go on."  
  
"I know whatever happened to him while he was gone wasn't easy. When he got back, he was more settled, in some ways, but there were signs . . . I've seen how people look after something bad happens in the field, and he was like that, even though he wouldn't talk about it." Ianto looked into the Doctor's eyes as he spoke, searching for some hint of information, but the Doctor only nodded, expression gone unhappy but unsurprised. The slight motion of his head caused the subdued light to catch a glint of gold hidden deep in the brown irises; Ianto, reminded of whom he was talking to, looked down again to gather his thoughts.  
  
"He seemed to be getting better, but then we had a string of bad cases; they hit Jack especially hard, I could tell. There was an alien terrorist cell, nearly nuked Cardiff, but we stopped them. Not without losses." Ianto was silent for a moment, remembering Beth and how much, in her way, she'd reminded him of Lisa. But he wasn't here to talk about himself. "Then there was a case . . . " he trailed off, not sure how to summarize it. "There were people keeping an alien tied up, cutting pieces off of it to sell as meat, because it could heal itself and grow back what they took. Jack said we were going to save it, but we couldn't."  
  
Ianto fell silent for a moment, remembering the unique horror of that scene: the stench in the warehouse, the blood and the suffering inflicted on something that couldn't fight back — couldn't, probably, even understand what was happening. All so a few men, a few humans, could make some easy money. That was the first time Ianto had realized aliens might need protecting, too, and it hadn't been an easy epiphany.  
  
Motion in his peripheral vision drew Ianto’s attention back to the man sitting across from him. The Doctor was rubbing both hands across his face; when his hands dropped, the revealed expression was open, unguarded and faintly terrifying. He fixed Ianto with dark, bottomless eyes and drew a deep breath.  
  
"You were right to call me. During the time Jack was gone," he began, and stopped. His gaze dropped, leaving Ianto dizzy with the loss of contact. The Doctor pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, elbow resting on the table for support. "I don't know everything that happened. I suspect I'm being protected." He huffed out a small, pained laugh, face still shielded by his hand.  
  
Ianto, his heart pounding, understood that dark humor perfectly. He couldn't imagine a being less in need of protection, but he could see Jack trying, nonetheless.  
  
The Doctor dropped his hand to the table and laced his fingers together. "The stories I know," he continued without looking up, "aren't mine to tell. But I think I won't be betraying any confidences if I say that Jack chose to put himself between others and danger — wholly and completely. He suffered so innocent people didn’t have to. And it helped, it really did, but it wasn't enough. Even giving all he had, every day he was witness to terrible things, things he couldn't stop. It was all redeemed in the end, but that kind of pain, that helplessness, can't be entirely forgotten."  
  
The Doctor's hands were gripping each other white-knuckled. His gaze was blank, staring down at the tabletop but seeing something entirely different.  
  
Ianto sat back in his chair, slowly, understanding. " _Duw_ ," he breathed. "That was Jack, wasn't it? Tied up and having chunks cut out of him." It felt like vast gulfs of awful understanding were opening out in front of him.  
  
The Doctor looked up to meet Ianto's eyes with an obvious effort. "Yes. Yes, it was, in a manner of speaking. Sometimes not in a manner of speaking at all."  
  
"It was for a lot longer than a few months, too, wasn't it?" Ianto asked, his voice supernaturally calm even to his own ears.  
  
The Doctor nodded.  
  
Then it was Ianto's turn to rub his hands across his face, remembering. "He was so set on saving that alien." _And me sitting around making jokes about plankton._ "But we couldn't do it, and there was Jack, feeling everything it felt. No wonder it set him off."  
  
"One more life he couldn't save," the Doctor agreed, tone flat and somber.  
  
Ianto dropped his hands into his lap. “What about you?” he asked. He didn’t think anyone could have developed that bleak, haunted look by merely being on the sidelines.  
  
The Doctor understood; he could tell by the way the Time Lord’s expression changed, shifting into something completely human and completely false.  
  
“Oh, he’s saved me any number of times and I’ve returned the favor — we keep going back and forth that way,” was the Doctor’s offhand, airy reply.  
  
Ianto could recognize a defensive mechanism when he saw it, and anymore he wasn’t inclined to throw stones. He fiddled with his coffee cup but wasn’t up to taking another sip, even to buy a small conversational lull.  
  
“Well, that explains why Jack’s been trying to save the whole world — or at least the bits in and around Cardiff — single-handed and head-first,” he said, shifting back to the official topic at hand.  
  
The Doctor sighed, looking thoughtfully down at his hands again. “Yes, it's all very _him_ ,” he said.  
  
Ianto had to smile at that, however briefly. “He’s always been gung-ho but even so he’d take breaks. He’d read, go out for an evening,” _play naked hide-and-seek,_ “get some rest even if he doesn’t sleep, but now . . .” he shook his head. “He won’t take any help, either. He’s isolating himself, going out alone for hours on end. We haven’t even been Weevil-hunting together for weeks . . .”  
  
He broke off. Across from him, the Doctor had looked up sharply, expressive eyebrows drawn down into a thunderous frown over eyes no longer human at all. “Hunting?” he asked in a voice gone to ice.  
  
Ianto swallowed. Once again, he’d almost managed to forget to whom — and what — he was talking. He knew from experience the Doctor was strong enough to heave a human’s entire body weight around one-handed, but that wasn’t what scared him. He had an absolute, gut premonition that if the Doctor ever got truly angry, the result wouldn’t be anything so sane, simple and ordinary as a physical beating.  
  
“Uh,” he fumbled. “That’s Jack’s term for it. It’s more like . . . patrolling. Marking boundaries. Jack says Weevils take territorial claims seriously, and if we can get them to understand where they should and shouldn’t go, it'll help keep the peace.” Ianto had to admit, Jack seemed to know what he was doing. Sometimes a "hunting" expedition got hairy when a Weevil or two decided to test those boundaries, but the resulting skirmishes with Torchwood were nothing compared to what would happen if Cardiff’s full human and Weevil populations ever intersected explosively.  
  
The Doctor relaxed, nodding. “Jack has a good understanding of dominance displays,” he commented, in a way that gave Ianto serious pause; before he could say anything the Doctor continued, asking, “Where does he go, when he's alone?”  
  
“No idea. I have these visions of him lurking Batman-like in back alleys and on rooftops, but since he’s stopped talking to anyone . . .” Ianto made a small, helpless wave with one hand.  
  
The Doctor pursed his lips, frowning slightly as if in deep thought, then levered himself up, leaning across the table toward Ianto. Ianto watched, frowning in return, trying to puzzle out the Doctor’s intent. The Doctor’s movement stirred the air between them, and Ianto caught a whiff of a complex, familiar scent: a dry sweetness like sandalwood mixed with the vanilla-and-paper aroma of old books, with a deeper, more organic sweetness underneath, like honey.  
  
It was the scent that permeated Jack’s clothes, and sometimes his skin, after one of Jack's extracurricular jaunts away from Torchwood and Cardiff, or after one of the long nights Jack spent alone in the Hub, when the security cameras would conveniently malfunction for several hours.  
  
The Doctor inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring and lips parting. His eyelids fluttered closed, giving Ianto a brief view of surprisingly long, thick lashes. The Doctor held his breath for a second before relaxing backwards into his seat with a slow exhale. His expression, when he opened his eyes was wry and compassionate.  
  
“Information isn’t all he’s been withholding, is it?” he asked, so matter-of-factly it took Ianto a moment to realize what he was talking about.  
  
“You can _smell_ that?” Ianto asked, starting loud, but modulating his voice to keep from attracting attention. He wasn’t sure if he was angry, mortified, or just plain freaked out.  
  
“Yep,” the Doctor replied, slumping further back in his seat and giving a casual half-shrug. “Jack’s personal scent is unique. So’s yours,” he added quickly in a conciliatory tone, as if worried Ianto might feel left out.  
  
Ianto gaped for a moment; it seemed too invasively intimate for this alien to know what he smelled like.  
  
 _Why not?_ a part of his brain whispered back. _You know what_ he _smells like._  
  
The conversation was edging dangerously close to the unwanted elephant sharing the table with them: the fact that they were both Jack Harkness’s lovers, like it or not. Even though, for some intangible reason, Ianto couldn’t imagine the man across from him having sex with anyone, even Jack.  
  
Ianto made himself be calm, and answered as clinically as possible. _Pretend he really is a Doctor._ “He hasn’t been interested in intimate contact, no,” he said, aware of the faint flush of color rising to his cheeks and hating it. The Doctor made him feel very young. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s going elsewhere, either. There are things he’s evasive about, but that isn’t one of them.”  
  
The Doctor raised his eyebrows and made a small, but genuine sputter of amusement. “That’s a very diplomatic way to put it. I can see why Jack likes having you around. I’ll bet you’re constantly smoothing things over for him.” There was nothing condescending in his tone; his humor was genuine and friendly.  
  
Ianto thought about that assessment and recognized the truth in it. “You could say that.”  
  
“I just did,” the Doctor said, cheerfully. He cocked his head and his manner shifted yet again, going more serious. “And you look after him. That’s good. He needs people to do that.”  
  
It was Ianto’s turn for a half shrug. “I . . .” he started, but found the rest of the words sticking in his throat.  
  
“Yes,” the Doctor said, nodding thoughtfully, as if not needing to hear the words out loud. “You do, or else you’d never have called me.” A slight emphasis on the final pronoun spoke volumes.  
  
“ _Can_ you help him?” Ianto asked, finally allowing himself to be truly hopeful.  
  
“I think so. But . . . I’ll have to take him away. Not for long, you understand — after the _Valiant_ there were several months' worth of things we had to do in linear time: loose ends to tie up, people to settle, reports to write,” the Doctor winked, flashing a quicksilver grin, never missing a beat as he spoke. “We couldn’t risk the complications of taking him back and having him live out the same time in two places at once. That’s not a problem now. He’ll be back by tomorrow morning, never fear.” Another flash of emotion, almost too fast to catch: a certain sharpness to the last words, a quick hint of something Ianto would have called envy in a human.  
  
Of all the people in the Universe, Ianto had never expected to see his own feelings reflected in this particular mirror. _He’ll never stay with either of us, but he’ll never willingly leave either of us. We’ve that in common. And we’ve that advantage, if we choose to use it._ Calm certainty settled over him. He and the Doctor might never be _happy_ about one another, but they could share a common purpose.  
  
“Do it. Whatever it takes,” he told the Doctor, meeting gold-shot brown eyes fearlessly, the words bringing a painful but genuine relief once spoken.  
  
The look that blossomed on the Doctor’s face was . . . intense. Wonderful. Intoxicating. Loaded with the disturbing, compelling charm the Doctor used so freely. _If I’d met this man before I found Torchwood, I’d’ve followed him to the ends of the Universe and been glad of the chance,_ Ianto thought, but that knowledge didn’t bother him. For the first time he and this ancient Power were completely on the same side and there was a certain giddy joy to that, like going into battle with the biggest, most effective weapon ever built in your hand.  
  
“Well, then,” the Doctor said, grinning brilliantly. “We’ve got some rooftops to search.”  
  
“How d’you know he’s on a roof? Besides good guessing?” Ianto asked, genuinely curious.  
  
The Doctor rubbed his earlobe between thumb and forefinger. “We-ell, Jack’s immortal. A fixed point in Space and Time: a _fact_. If all the rest of reality was an enormous sheet of black velvet — which it isn’t, of course, but for the sake of illustration it works well enough -- Jack’s like a single pinprick in that velvet, with a gazillion-watt light shining through. He's hard to miss, if you're a Time Lord. The velvet in Cardiff’s a bit wrinkly, thanks to the Rift, but I’m getting a distinct feeling of _up_ -ness, so unless you’ve grown a mountain I don’t know about within city limits, he’s standing on a building.” The rapid-fire flow of words cut off abruptly. “But Cardiff’s wrinkly enough, I’m having a hard time telling _which_ building,” was the sheepish conclusion as the Doctor grimaced and his hand slid around to rub at the back of his neck.  
  
“I can help there,” Ianto said, suppressing a smile and pulling the hand-held tracker from his pocket. He held it up and wiggled it back and forth. “This is configured to pick up the energy readings from Jack’s wristband. Almost as unmistakable as a pinprick in velvet, and a lot easier to home in on.”  
  
The Doctor slumped back in his chair, shaking his head as he ran his hand through his hair. He was grinning again, less broadly but more appreciatively. “Ianto Jones, you’re a marvel. Jack’s lucky to have you.” A beat to let that assessment sink in on all levels, and then the Doctor was on his feet, radiating barely suppressed energy and cheerful mania.  
  
“ _Allons-y_!” he said. “We’ve got a Captain to rescue!”  
  
Ianto grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and followed the Doctor out the door and into the night.  



	3. Teaspoon :: Second Opinion by DameRuth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Many thanks to taffimai for being so patient; Ten and Ianto are a fascinating combination, but they take a lot of wrangling!
> 
> * * *

They took Ianto's car, which was just one more bizarre experience for the evening. Ianto was secretly relieved when the Doctor reached automatically for the seat belt; he really had no idea how go about telling a centuries-old alien to buckle up without sounding silly.  
  
Before pulling into traffic, he took one last look at the tracker; Jack didn't seem to be moving around, which was typical when he was in roof-gazing mode; he could go into a Zen state that would last hours. Ianto balanced the tracker on the dash of the car so the readout would be visible, just in case.  
  
"I should be able to get us fairly close," he said, once they were underway. "But the last of it will involve going in on foot. There'll be a few fences and locked doors, things like that."  
  
The Doctor shrugged. "I'm good at doors," he said dismissively, gazing out through the windshield.  
  
"So am I," Ianto said; he'd always had a knack for such things, which stood him in good stead at Torchwood. "But, um, that brings up the question: do you want to talk to Jack alone? I could drop you off . . ."  
  
"Oh, now, I think this little intervention will have more force coming from both of us at the same time don't you?" The Doctor shot Ianto an amused, conspiratorial look.  
  
Ianto surprised himself by laughing. "An intervention. Hadn't thought of it that way, but that's what it is, isn't it?"  
  
"Absolutely. It might even qualify as a mission to save the world. I mean, a celibate Jack Harkness? All else aside, if that keeps up the Universe may very well implode or something."  
  
"What a depressing epitaph: _For want of a shag, the world was lost._ " Ianto kept his face and voice deadpan, playing along.  
  
"Mmm. Adds new meaning to the line _not with a bang . . ._ " the Doctor responded, equally deadpan.  
  
"If only Eliot had known. That could have been a very different poem."  
  
"I'll be sure to tell T. S. about it the next time I see him," the Doctor said, just before losing control and breaking into sputtering laughter, setting Ianto off in the process.  
  
They both snickered for a moment before falling silent again. Ianto found his mood lighter than it had been. He didn't meet many people who appreciated his sense of humor, and it was obscurely comforting to have something in common with the Doctor besides Jack.  
  
"We're coming up on where we'll need to park," Ianto said, after a moment. "Then it'll get more interesting. I've never been to the top of this building; I'm not sure how to get to the roof from here."  
  
"Shouldn't be a problem," the Doctor said with airy cheer as he pulled a cylindrical device with a blue-glowing tip from his suit pocket.  
  
"So it does more than scare Weevils, does it?" Ianto asked turning off the ignition.  
  
" _This_ is my sonic screwdriver, and Weevils are the least of it," the Doctor said with smug pride, releasing his seat belt and exiting the car in one fluid motion, leaving Ianto to follow.  
  
\---  
  
 _Maybe this is how Jack stays in such perfect shape,_ Ianto thought, when a rare pause allowed him a moment to catch his breath. He'd been inclined to think Jack might have some unfair, futuristic, genetically-engineered advantage when it came to fitness, but running after the Doctor for any length of time might produce a similar effect. After ducking through a couple alleyways, scaling a few fences, getting turned 'round, ducking through a side door, running up a few flights of stairs that ended far short of the roof, and running back down and outside and around again, Ianto was definitely feeling the strain.  
  
The Doctor was barely breathing fast, balanced on the balls of his feet as he turned his head side-to-side like an alert robin searching for a likely worm as he scanned for new routes.  
  
"Has he moved?" he asked over his shoulder.  
  
Ianto pulled the tracker from his pocket. The Doctor, with an obvious effort, had told him to keep it. Ianto got the impression the Doctor was used to carrying all the equipment, as well as leading the way. He supposed he should be complimented, though at the moment he was more focused on inhaling as much oxygen as possible.  
  
"No," Ianto said after a moment's consultation, not up to a longer reply. He swallowed and tried to slow his breathing.  
  
"I didn't think so," the Doctor said, absently. "Didn't feel like it, anyway. _Hah!_ " The last exclamation was followed by a spring forward, sonic screwdriver at the ready. Ianto, following the line of motion saw a half-hidden doorway — just a flat sheet of metal, no handle on the outside, painted to match the rest of the wall and crossed with shadows.  
  
A quick, low-pitched buzz (Ianto was finally getting over the urge to flinch whenever the Doctor employed the device; his first introduction to the screwdriver had been memorable) and the door popped ajar enough for the Doctor to hook his fingertips around the edge and pull it open.  
  
He paused, framed in the dark rectangle for a moment as he looked back at Ianto. " _Allons-y!_ " he called, cheerful as ever, then he was gone in a swirl of coattails; Ianto could hear running footsteps on metal stairs. With a silent groan he gathered himself and followed.  
  
\---  
  
The stairs went up for a long time. After his first headlong gallop, the Doctor slowed down to a more reasonable pace. Ianto had the embarrassed impression it was for his benefit more than anything else, but he was grateful nonetheless. Finally, the Doctor's steps slowed and stopped, and a second later Ianto joined him on a narrow landing ending in a single door with "Restricted Access" stenciled onto it. There were no more stairs.  
  
"Definitely the right place," the Doctor commented in an undertone. "I can feel him now, no mistaking it." A quick buzz from the screwdriver and they were out in the open air, a light breeze ruffling their hair and catching the hem of Doctor's long coat. A few dozen yards away, the same breeze, stronger at the edge of the building, similarly lifted and swirled the coattails of the figure dramatically and iconically silhouetted against the dim night glow of Cardiff. Jack was still unaware of them, and stood balanced on the retaining wall at the very edge of the roof, legs braced shoulder-width apart, hands in pockets.  
  
The Doctor leaned close, bringing his lips next to Ianto's ear. "Batman, you said?" he murmured. His breath was cool and honey-scented. "Well-called. All that's missing are the ears."  
  
Ianto huffed an amused breath, appreciating the break in tension. "Don't give him any ideas," he replied, keeping his voice low. "He's fond enough of dressing up as it is . . ."  
  
A deep, knowing chuckle from the Doctor. Then, soft and serious, "Shall we?"  
  
Ianto nodded and stepped forward, the Doctor at his side. His footsteps were clearly audible, but the Doctor, in his rubber-soled trainers, moved as silently as a ghost beside him.  
  
An almost imperceptible stiffening of Jack's spine told Ianto when he'd been heard. He stopped where he was, about fifteen feet away from the edge of the roof, to avoid giving the impression he was sneaking up and spoke to identify himself, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the movement of air. "Jack."  
  
The Doctor, still silent, stopped next to Ianto and slipped his hands into his pockets, waiting.  
  
Jack's stance shifted, from alert to irritated. Amazing how expressive he was with the set of his shoulders, with his whole body. "I told you to go home, Ianto!" he called over his shoulder, turning his head slightly but keeping his eyes on the cityscape in front of him. His tone was sharp and dismissive; it cut, but not in the intended manner.  
  
 _He_ must _be hurting,_ Ianto thought with worried exasperation. _Jack's never this much of a bastard otherwise._ Any last doubts he might have had about calling in the Doctor evaporated, leaving behind determination and a groundswell of anticipatory black humor over the surprise Jack Harkness was about to receive.  
  
"If you won't listen to me, will you at least listen to your Doctor?" he shot back. He slipped his hands into his pockets, consciously mirroring the Doctor's casual stance.  
  
Jack, sounding even more irritated, responded, "I told Owen to go home, too."  
  
Ianto traded a wry, amused glance with the Doctor, and with a narrow grin of pure, dark delight, called back, "I didn't say 'Owen,' I said 'your Doctor.""  
  
The Doctor, perfectly on cue, spoke: "Jack." His tone of voice was one Ianto had never heard him use: it held an undercurrent of implacable force. He was reminded of the utter devastation of Canary Wharf, all of it by this one man's hand, in the end. A dangerous ally indeed, but one more than a match for Jack.  
  
The unexpected voice made Jack jump and spin; he nearly overbalanced, and Ianto's stomach dropped for a second as he thought they might shortly be relocating this meeting to the pavement below, but Jack's excellent reflexes kicked in and he stabilized, rocking slightly in place as he gaped at the two suit-clad men standing shoulder to shoulder before him.  
  
"Doctor?" he said, voice scaling up in pitch. " _Ianto . . ._?" His stunned expression was truly priceless.  
  
Ianto traded another glance with the Doctor and then the two of them stepped forward together with perfect timing, as if executing rehearsed choreography, closing the distance between them and Jack, who continued to gape.  
  
"Yes," the Doctor said, coming to a halt and lifting his chin to look up at Jack, still perched on the retaining wall. "Well. Now that the introductions are out of the way . . ." His voice was normal, if dry, no longer commanding. "You look surprised to see me."  
  
Jack reached up to run a shaky hand through his hair, sure sign of his discombobulation — ordinarily, he was fussy of his coiffure, even in the oddest circumstances. "How . . . What are you doing _here_?" _On a roof with me and Ianto_ was the clear subtext.  
  
"Your people are worried about you, Jack," the Doctor said, voice firm but kind. "With good reason, from what young Mr. Jones has told me." He nodded cordially in Ianto's direction. "They weren't having any luck getting through to you, so he thought I should have a go, and called me up to come 'round and talk some sense into you." He rubbed his earlobe. "Though really, I shouldn't have to. I thought old soldiers like you and me knew to take our rest when we could get it."  
  
One of Ianto's other useful gifts, besides an affinity for locks, was an ability to fade into the background even when he was standing in plain sight — like now. He surreptitiously stepped back and to one side, and, fascinated, let the show unfold in front of him.  
  
Jack's head came up and he glared at the Time Lord from his superior vantage point. " _You_ can talk," he snapped, with enough huffy sarcasm to sound more like his usual self than he had in weeks.  
  
The Doctor somehow managed to look down his nose at someone whose head was a good two feet above his own. "Yes, I _can_ talk," he responded, tartly. "I may spend a good deal of my time running, jumping and saving worlds, but I also keep it in perspective: those are just the times in between. Nobody, not a human, not a Time Lord, not an immortal, can stay on-duty twenty-four hours a day, every day, indefinitely. All that will accomplish is handing your enemies an easy victory in the end."  
  
"I know what's out there," Jack responded, voice going low and tense. "I know what's coming." His dead certainty, combined with the sheer force of his delivery, gave Ianto a cold chill. Not for the first time, he wondered what Jack knew about the near future that he wasn't sharing.  
  
"The things I've seen, and you expect me to _relax_?" Jack nearly spat the last words, leaning down to face the Doctor nearly eye-to-eye. Ianto resisted the urge to step backward, even though he wasn't the focus of Jack's attention. The Doctor merely stood and absorbed it all, inscrutable, alert and listening.  
  
Jack took a breath, and his manner changed. He straightened, and cast a quick glance over his shoulder, at the wide sweep of Cardiff's lights below. When he turned back to the Doctor he looked worn and desperate, which was far more terrible than his near-rage of a moment before. "I’m all they’ve got. How can I stop?" His voice was smaller, almost pleading.  
  
"You can't," the Doctor responded, expression softening. "And I wouldn't ask you to. You're an impossible man doing an impossible job, and nobody better. But you aren't without resources, or able assistance." He tossed a quick wink in Ianto's direction. "When you choose the best, sometimes it pays to listen to them. Besides . . ." the Doctor's tone went from chiding to suggestive in a heartbeat, nearly giving Ianto whiplash. "You might have an impossible job, but you've also got impossible advantages." A significant pause. " _Travels in Time and Space_ , you know," he added, dropping his chin and giving Jack the benefit of wide, puppyish eyes, which was whiplash again, in an entirely different direction.  
  
Jack went very still, balanced on the edge of the building.  
  
"Oh, come on, Jack," the Doctor said, voice gone to affectionate velvet. "You need a rest, and I can give it to you. Away for as long as you need, and back by morning."  
  
Out of nowhere, Ianto's skin began crawling. It wasn't fear, or revulsion, or anything he'd ever felt before, but the air suddenly seemed thicker than it had been and made him very aware that he was a mere observer at this point. Whatever was happening wasn't meant for him, wasn't something he could even comprehend, even if he had a good idea of what it was. _It's sex, Jim, but not as we know it . . ._  
  
Instinct told him it was time to leave, but curiosity being stronger, he steeled himself and held his ground.  
  
"I know a sky," the Doctor said, his entire tone and cadence (and possibly language; Ianto understood every word, but it didn't feel like English) changing into something graceful, almost musical, "where the stars are so bright they shine in the daytime and the nights are like nothing you've ever seen. Or a sea with reefs made of crystal, where the sand is as warm as your skin and the sunrise is fire on the water. I know forests and rivers and cities, and there are a thousand thousand other places I've never been but we could explore together. All of it now, yours for the asking and the taking . . ." His almost-perfect Estuary accent faded away, the lilt and burr that always hid beneath his words coming to the forefront.  
  
Ianto felt something clawing and teasing at the edges of his mind, fruitlessly, without finding a foothold. The air between Jack and the Doctor warped and shimmered with something invisible, like cold heat. The urge to flee increased, but he fought it. Staring down a Weevil would seem like child’s play after this.  
  
Clearly, from the expression on Jack’s face, whatever the Doctor was doing was having the intended effect on its proper target. Ianto was impressed in spite of himself — if anyone could be aroused by what was happening, it would have to be Jack Harkness.  
  
"Jack," the Doctor said again, quietly, but with such power, on so many levels, it almost stopped being a name at all. He raised one hand in invitation. The average person in the street would never have given that hand a second glance, but Ianto had never seen anything so alien in all his life.  
  
Jack slowly reached out and took the Doctor's hand, pushing off from the retaining wall to land, almost absent-mindedly on his feet facing the Doctor, who smiled. Ianto did have to look away for a second then, in self-defense, but he looked back when he heard his name.  
  
"Ianto," Jack began, his voice husky, and stopped. Ianto, meeting his eyes (pupils wide and dark from more than the dim light on the rooftop), could read the plea and question there.  
  
He took a deep breath. "Go on then," he replied with an affectionate smile. "What are you waiting for? We've all been saying you need a holiday — well, except for Owen, he says you need your head examined, but that's pot and kettle if you ask me."  
  
Jack still hesitated, and Ianto rolled his eyes theatrically. "Cardiff will still be here in the morning. We survived a couple months on our own, you know. We'll manage for one night."  
  
"I'll be back," Jack said, like he was trying to will the truth of it through the air between them, and Ianto knew the decision was made.  
  
"I know." Then, looking directly into Jack's eyes, a single soft command. "Go." A quick exchange of glances and fractional nods with the Doctor, and Ianto turned away and stepped up to the retaining wall (though not _onto_ it; that particular living-on-the-edge fetish was Jack's). He fixed his gaze on Cardiff, partly to end the conversation and dismiss the others, and partly because he couldn't quite bring himself to watch Jack and the Doctor leave together.  
  
He heard Jack's footsteps, retreating to the stairwell, then beginning to descend. He didn't hear the Doctor leave, but didn’t expect to.  
  
Long after the other two were gone, Ianto remained where he was, watching the slow pulse of the nighttime streets. The lights turned a superficially ordinary city into a fairytale and hinted at the secret life that lay beneath the surface, the life that Jack and Torchwood Three (so different from Torchwood One) were revealing to him. Cardiff had been left, implicitly, in his care, and he found that made him feel more affectionate towards the place, made it seem more real and precious. He wondered if this was how Jack saw it, all the time, from his many rooftop vantage points. He rather thought it was.  
  
After a while, Ianto turned his face to the few, sad, wan stars that shone through the city haze and he smiled. Stars and fire and crystal and the Doctor, all out there. But it wasn't enough to keep Jack.  
  
On the heels of that thought came a yawn. A glance at his watch confirmed it was getting late. Ianto considered heading home, but decided to go directly to the Hub instead. He had a change of clothes stashed there (after their first really dirty assignment, all Torchwood employees learned the value of having extra clean clothes on-hand at work), he had a standing invitation to use Jack's small private shower, the all-night pizza parlor was close at hand, and the old, ugly sofa in the break area was acceptably comfortable. A night spent at Torchwood wouldn't be a hardship.  
  
And that way it would be easy to have hot coffee ready, first thing in the morning.  



End file.
